Three Strikes
by Bonzai-Bunny
Summary: Canada knew he should have been stronger than this, stronger than his brother's addiction.


Warnings: Drug addictions, language, sexual situations, incest

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia

Authoress Note: I was going through my old kink meme fills and I remembered that I actually liked this, so I decided to post it here. :D Enjoy.

- - - o0o - - -

Matthew thinks that he really should have seen this coming, that Alfred rarely, if ever, came over just to "hang out," and ever since the accident he more often than not had ulterior motives for doing anything.

Still, it was nice to play video games and do pointless things together like they used to, but it was only a matter of time that the real reason for Al's presence reared its ugly head. Matthew tried to refuse his brother politely, because he was tired of this; he was tired of being used as a drug dealer and tired of being manipulated ("I'm sorry Al, but I don't think I should give you any more. You should stop taking them.").

Matthew should have expected it, nonetheless, when the argument escalated too far, became too hot for them to handle, and Alfred shoved him against a wall. Matthew tries to keep his expression level, to not show how much pain he is in because if he had been human, Alfred might've broken something.

"I said _no_, Al. I won't support your addiction anymore," he shoves back, a mistake, because Alfred is seething now. His dull, blue eyes (Matthew remembers when they used to be so vibrant) spark with the first true passion the Canadian has seen in weeks.

"Damnit, Matt!" Alfred pushes once more, his fingers digging deep bruises into his brother's shoulders and at this, Matthew does wince.

"I'm not addicted, it's a prescription. I can't help that I have a higher tolerance to drugs than most humans do."

This was the excuse he used the first time, and it was a while before Matthew realized it was utter bull. Alfred's physician knew about his nation status, and he had been treated before accordingly.

"Let go Al."

"Not until you give me the pills." There is a particularly crazed, desperate look in his brother's eyes, and Matthew doesn't like it one bit.

"Alfred, Let go of me. You say you aren't addicted, but look what you're doing. Let. Go."

"I'm only doing this because you're being a giant prick right now, Mattie!"

"No," Matthew tries to be calm for both of them. "I know you think you don't have a problem, but—"

"Shut up, Matt! I'm tired of hearing your psycho-shit. Just give me _the goddamn pills._"

"You need to calm down Al—"

"No, fuck you!" Alfred raises his fist, as though to strike, and Matthew flinches instinctively, only thinking of how much he would hate to suffer a broken nose, but it works. Alfred stares, really stares, perhaps seeing his brother and the terror in his eyes for the first time, and slowly lowers his fist.

"Oh, fuck, Matt," he breathes, burying his face in his hands and backing away, perhaps realizing the magnitude of his actions. "Why didn't you—fuck. I'm sorry, man."

He moves forward again, and wraps his arms around his brother's waist, letting his head fall onto the other's shoulder. His nose nudges against the skin on his twin's neck, and Matthew tenses. He knows this. This is attempt number two.

"I just get so frustrated, you know?"

Matthew doesn't say anything, just allows Alfred to continue hugging him.

"I mean, I'm in so much pain and it's not fair." Matthew can feel the breath of his brother against his skin and it isn't as soothing as it used to be.

"Why do you want me in pain, Mattie?" There's an almost whining, childish tilt to Alfred's voice, as though he's tearing up, and the Canadian sighs. He knows he needs to keep his resolve strong; this is normally where he broke down, gave the nation what he wanted.

"I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Then why won't you give me the pills?"

"Because your leg is perfectly fine, Al. The rest of your pain is in your head."

Alfred pulls his head off of his brother's shoulder, and his eyes are frantic again.

"It's not just my leg! It's my recession, and all my resources being stretched thin, and my debt, and my people are going crazy—"

"And you'll deal with it like nations do. I'm not going to give you your painkillers anymore."

"You can't…"

"I'm sorry."

It appears Alfred hears the resolve in his voice because the desperate, crazed look grows stronger. He balls his fists in the fabric of Matthew's sweater, and a brittle laugh dies shortly after it leaves his lips.

"Come on, Matt…that's not funny."

"It isn't a joke, Al."

"Mattie…you can't do that. I _need_those pills."

"Yes, I can, and that's exactly why I'm doing it Alfred."

"Please…" A faint blush grows to Alfred's face, but he balls his fists tighter. "I'll do anything."

"No, Al." The hands on his sweater loosen and move to his hips.

"I'll do anything," Alfred repeats again, softer, before resting his head on the crook of the Canadian's neck, but this time, his lips are there.

"Alfred…?"

His hands dig underneath his brother's sweater, placing them on the soft skin and Alfred presses his entire body flush against Matthew's, trapping him against the wall.

"Al, what are you—? Stop."

The other doesn't seem to be listening, instead focusing on sucking against his brother's neck. When it becomes apparent what he's doing, Matthew feels disgusted. He wonders how his brother even came to this conclusion, but he's done humoring him when Alfred reaches his hands around and cups his buttocks.

"Al, stop it, seriously."

Alfred doesn't, even ignoring his northern neighbor's hands trying to push him away, as he uses his new hand position to grind their hips together while he tugs on Matthew's hair curl with his mouth. A jolt of pleasure shoots through the Canadian and for a moment he doesn't know what to do with himself, his excitement clearly growing in his jeans.

"Oh…s-stop it. God, I m-mean it."

Matthew's cheeks burn with shame and arousal. He didn't know Alfred knew about his curl (but then, Nantucket might have done the same) and every time it's tugged on, he gets harder, which is only made worse by the incessant grinding. His erection is aching in his jeans, each painfully constricted throb making him want to give into the mouth on his curl, licking and tugging.

But the disgusted feeling in his stomach grows thicker with each rock of those hips. He wants to cry, so frustrated that his body was completely ignoring his morals, and he particularly wants to kill his brother.

"Alfred, stop," he says through clenched teeth, finally getting his nerve back.

"Not until you give me the pills."

"_No!_"

Then, Alfred does stop. He backs away, his glassy eyes portraying nothing, and for a moment Matthew wonders if Alfred's plan is to leave him so sexually frustrated that he'll just give up the painkillers.

But the look on his face becomes pleading again.

"_Please_…" he begs, slowly getting to his knees and Matthew's stomach plummets with something foul. His brother wasn't being serious, was he?

"I'll do anything…" He whispers again, his face in front of the other nation's erection, only a pair of jeans and boxers separating the two, and Matthew swallows thickly, feeling something akin to more revulsion. The image is so pathetic. Alfred acting like he's some common whore and not the great nation of the United States of America for drugs, of all things. Matthew looks away, not even wanting to see the image. He doesn't think he can bear it if Alfred goes further, and just like that, he crumbles.

"Stop…Just—stop. I'll get you your stupid pills."

Alfred looks up, happiness flickering in his eyes, and for a moment, Matthew wonders if that was all Hollywood, a theatrical performance to get what he wants (like he did so often). And the more Matthew thinks about it, the more that it likely was. But it doesn't matter. Not anymore.

Alfred stands and backs away, giving his brother enough room to hate himself. He goes into the kitchen, knowing Alfred's eyes are watching his back, and pulls out a pill bottle—80 mg of Oxycontin—before tossing it back to his eagerly awaiting brother. Alfred looks ecstatic, and stares at Matthew as though he's his savior, never mind that he just sexually assaulted his brother for drugs. The ends outweigh the means, right? A philosophy that Matthew knows his brother has often lived by.

"Thanks bro!"

Matthew nods, not trusting himself to speak just yet, swallowing some more self-hate. He knows it's as much his fault as it is Alfred's, even if the other did result to cruel methods to get what he wanted. And Matthew thinks that he should be much stronger than this, stronger than his brother's addiction.

Alfred leaves without another word, proving that the pills were the only reason he was there in the first place, leaving Matthew feeling cheap as always. He knows it's only a matter of time before Alfred comes back, looking for a refill, and he'll most likely give in again, thus goes the cycle.

Matthew closes the medicine cabinet and wonders if he always gave in because his brother's methods were just so fool-proof, or if it was some subconscious way to keep Alfred coming back, to keep his brother paying attention to him. The ends justify the means, after all, he tells himself.

But not really, and he'll hate himself just as much next time too.


End file.
